Paintbrushes hate me. They always have. I never care for them properly and in turn they punish me by fraying and becoming hard or bent or both… They watch me in their aged water judging my chaotic lifestyle as they start to discolour up the handles.
These frayed, hard, bent brushes telling a story of a fast but somewhat forgetful mind, daubing paint with so much purpose. But as quickly as I started I will stop… leaving chaos behind me and the paintbrushes judge me I swear.
Today I am trying to use my broken paintbrushes to create chaotic swipes to be adorned by words, using metallic paint to give purpose and meaning.
And another 25 envelopes are done, waiting for their homes, there is urgency and energy in each and every one, I can feel it… they are almost moving on their strings waiting to be sent out.
But the dirty paintbrushes sit, still waiting to be cleaned.